pertly.
Oh, yes, he had the right of it. As outspoken and to the point as ever.
"Miss Porter," he said. "I'll not be party to yet another of my brother's schemes to see me—"
Before he had the chance to finish his statement, he heard that odd sound from above stairs yet again.
Giggling.
His earlier premonition of impending catastrophe enveloped him like the sheets of rain that had been driven off the Channel the night before.
"There are more of you?" He wasn't a man given to panic, but more women? In his house? "This is inexcusable. If Parkerton thinks he can foist—"
"Lord John, it is nothing like that. If you would just let me explain—"
Jack didn't care to hear anything more from her. "Birdwell!" he bellowed at the kitchen. "Birdwell! What is the meaning of this?"
"Lord John, there is no need for such a display," Miss Porter chastened, as only a spinster schoolteacher could.
He shot a hot glance at her. She was, in his practiced assessment, in her late twenties, a spinster by Society's reckoning, but that didn't mean (in his humble and experienced opinion) that she deserved a place on the shelf. Of course, his estimation, gained in their tumbled introduction at Miss Emery's, had given him a rather intimate understanding as to the rather tempting curves the lady possessed beneath her dark muslin.
Yes, just get her out of that ugly gown and pull the pins from that severe chignon, and the lady had all the makings of a beauty.
Jack shook his head like a wet dog. Egads, he was in dire straits when he found himself fantasizing about tumbling a spinster who taught decorum!
"Mr. Birdwell!" he barked again, panic truly setting in.
Finally, and thankfully, his butler arrived. "Yes, my lord?"
"What is the meaning of this?" he said, pointing at the lady as if she were a blight upon his house.
"Ah, my lord, I see you've met Miss Porter and her young charges."
Young charges?
Jack didn't like the sound of that in the least.
Then, much to his horror, the door swung open and into the dining room bounded three young girls. Like a trio of kittens in muslin, giggling and wide-eyed.
Three of them!
Now he was convinced of it. The only disaster missing from the Old Testament was now being visited upon him—a plague of females.
Certainly, his years in Town had been filled with vice, but Lord, how many ways did a man have to atone for his sins?
"Grrrr."
He looked down to find attached to his one decent pair of boots a small black dog of some misplaced origins.
"Get off," he said, shaking his boot to no avail.
"Brutus," one of the girls called out, snapping her fingers. "Enough! That is our host!"
The little beast promptly let go, sitting back on his little haunches and eyeing Jack like a stray piece of bacon. The dog's fierce expression and lionlike fur made him look much more furious than his small stature warranted.
The girl came forward and scooped up her wretched, snarling little companion. "My apologies, my lord. I fear Brutus is a bit overprotective." The girl covered her dog's ears and said in a soft aside, "He has the heart of a wolfhound but hasn't the vaguest notion that he's just the size of a sewing basket."
"Are you sure it is a dog?" Jack asked.
The coltish miss with her wide blue eyes looked askance. "Of course he is!" She held the animal up, pushing it forward to afford him a better view—as if Jack needed another close-up meeting with the growling, snapping mongrel. "He has the most royal of bloodlines. His grandsire belonged to Marie Antoinette."
He was being visited by a descendant of Marie Antoinette's dog? He must be fevered. It was the only explanation.
The girl continued with her recitation of her dog's merit, in tones that suggested he warranted a place in
Debrett's
. "Brutus was a gift for my eleventh birthday from the Austrian ambassador."
Jack wasn't so convinced of the dog's worth or his vaunted bloodlines. "Are you sure it was a gift, or was the poor man just trying to rid his country
Oh, yes, he had the right of it. As outspoken and to the point as ever.
"Miss Porter," he said. "I'll not be party to yet another of my brother's schemes to see me—"
Before he had the chance to finish his statement, he heard that odd sound from above stairs yet again.
Giggling.
His earlier premonition of impending catastrophe enveloped him like the sheets of rain that had been driven off the Channel the night before.
"There are more of you?" He wasn't a man given to panic, but more women? In his house? "This is inexcusable. If Parkerton thinks he can foist—"
"Lord John, it is nothing like that. If you would just let me explain—"
Jack didn't care to hear anything more from her. "Birdwell!" he bellowed at the kitchen. "Birdwell! What is the meaning of this?"
"Lord John, there is no need for such a display," Miss Porter chastened, as only a spinster schoolteacher could.
He shot a hot glance at her. She was, in his practiced assessment, in her late twenties, a spinster by Society's reckoning, but that didn't mean (in his humble and experienced opinion) that she deserved a place on the shelf. Of course, his estimation, gained in their tumbled introduction at Miss Emery's, had given him a rather intimate understanding as to the rather tempting curves the lady possessed beneath her dark muslin.
Yes, just get her out of that ugly gown and pull the pins from that severe chignon, and the lady had all the makings of a beauty.
Jack shook his head like a wet dog. Egads, he was in dire straits when he found himself fantasizing about tumbling a spinster who taught decorum!
"Mr. Birdwell!" he barked again, panic truly setting in.
Finally, and thankfully, his butler arrived. "Yes, my lord?"
"What is the meaning of this?" he said, pointing at the lady as if she were a blight upon his house.
"Ah, my lord, I see you've met Miss Porter and her young charges."
Young charges?
Jack didn't like the sound of that in the least.
Then, much to his horror, the door swung open and into the dining room bounded three young girls. Like a trio of kittens in muslin, giggling and wide-eyed.
Three of them!
Now he was convinced of it. The only disaster missing from the Old Testament was now being visited upon him—a plague of females.
Certainly, his years in Town had been filled with vice, but Lord, how many ways did a man have to atone for his sins?
"Grrrr."
He looked down to find attached to his one decent pair of boots a small black dog of some misplaced origins.
"Get off," he said, shaking his boot to no avail.
"Brutus," one of the girls called out, snapping her fingers. "Enough! That is our host!"
The little beast promptly let go, sitting back on his little haunches and eyeing Jack like a stray piece of bacon. The dog's fierce expression and lionlike fur made him look much more furious than his small stature warranted.
The girl came forward and scooped up her wretched, snarling little companion. "My apologies, my lord. I fear Brutus is a bit overprotective." The girl covered her dog's ears and said in a soft aside, "He has the heart of a wolfhound but hasn't the vaguest notion that he's just the size of a sewing basket."
"Are you sure it is a dog?" Jack asked.
The coltish miss with her wide blue eyes looked askance. "Of course he is!" She held the animal up, pushing it forward to afford him a better view—as if Jack needed another close-up meeting with the growling, snapping mongrel. "He has the most royal of bloodlines. His grandsire belonged to Marie Antoinette."
He was being visited by a descendant of Marie Antoinette's dog? He must be fevered. It was the only explanation.
The girl continued with her recitation of her dog's merit, in tones that suggested he warranted a place in
Debrett's
. "Brutus was a gift for my eleventh birthday from the Austrian ambassador."
Jack wasn't so convinced of the dog's worth or his vaunted bloodlines. "Are you sure it was a gift, or was the poor man just trying to rid his country
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